A few days ago, I got back from a walk with my boys. Every summer I make that YOUR HEALTH MATTERS commitment and start doing something ridiculous. Last year, it was jogging, while still eating lots of chocolate and baked goods. That lasted until the first heat wave. At least the running part. I've been eating chocolates ever since.
Until now, friends. This year it's eating better PAIRED WITH...walking. And, you know, getting to the gym too, but NO PRESSURE. I don't handle the pressure, guys. I don't like the pressure.
Seems more manageable, right?
Well, that day's forecast was for balls hot paired with random, deadly thunder storms. So I packed up the boys early in morning to avoid the heat and give the community enough daylight to search for our lightning-charred bodies.
Well, turns out that balls hot paired with thunderstorms pretty much makes for a humid day. As in, you're prone to sweat. Just by breathing.
And here is where I tell you that I hate to sweat. And here is where you get rolly eyes, but decide to keep reading because IS THIS WOMAN FOR REAL?!
Well, the truth is that I don't mind sweating. In fact, when I'm not falling off the elliptical long enough to get the blood pumping, my wet shirt is a source of pride. So much so, guys, that I get ANNOYED that my sports bra soaks up most of it in the back leaving the extent of my sweat in question to possible onlookers.
But if I'm just standing around? Walking leisurely? WEARING A BRAND NEW WHITE RUFFLY SHIRT? I am not fond of sweating. So on this walk, a walk that was planned to be a lovely nature walk full of teachable moments and frogs and swatting dragonflies (and WHY ARE THERE SO MANY DRAGONFLIES) and magic walking sticks, I spent much of the time with my arms slightly outspread, away from my body in the hopes that the sweat wouldn't, um, set.
I was worried about my pit stains, naturally. Pit stains that would ruin my new white ruffly shirt. SO WORRIED, guys, that the frogs and the sticks and the motherfucking dragonflies were all blurred by tears of frustration and WHY ARE YOU RUNNING SO FAST, LEAVE THE FROG ALONE, MOMMA DOESN'T WANNA RUUUNNNN!
Which leaves us with a failed walk, a stained shirt, and some seriously annoyed and confused children. I'm banking on 1) I'll get better at this when WE MOVE TO TEXAS and 2) how long does infantile amnesia last?
The shirt, friends? That beloved shirt weathered the humidity better than the lot of us, and was perfectly stain-free until I ruined it in the wash yesterday.